


Eternal Sunshine of Sherlock's Mind

by sirenscall



Category: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Crossover, M/M, Memory Loss, Mind Palace, Moriarty is Alive, Wedding Dress, maybe...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-18 22:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14223669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenscall/pseuds/sirenscall
Summary: Sherlock tries to hold onto his memory of Jim, imagining the life they should've had, before it's gone forever. But maybe there's hope that they could start anew.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You don't need to have seen the movie to understand this fic, though some of the dialogue is straight from it. For the purposes of this fic, I don't want to just rewrite every scene Sherlock and Jim ever had in order to "erase" them, as I think that would get tedious. Instead, I'm playing at the concept where Joel's regretted going through with the procedure to erase his memories and has tried to hide Clementine in other parts of his mind before he forgets her altogether (but obviously with Sherlock and Jim).

Housed in a ballroom at the bottom of a grand staircase, soft music guided all the movement within. However, in spite of a mutual love for Sherlock's various forms of dance, it was generous to call that what they were doing now. As one couple among faceless others, continuously circling in place, they were immersed in the imagined warmth of each other's arms. A soft kiss was pressed to his cheek and Sherlock took notice of the smoothness of Jim's own against him, just for the occasion. He turned to catch Jim's lips, noting that he'd hardly needed to lean down at all.

"Just how tall are those shoes?" he teased. "You're nearly eye level."

Jim's eyes narrowed. "Well, you should know. You're the one who dressed me in this hideous thing." He pulled back, inspecting the Victorian gown with distaste. "Lace, cinched up to the neck, and the color, so old and drab." He attempted a twirl, disappointed when the fabric hung limply. "The bride's supposed to upstage everyone."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "I don't know that white would suit you."

That earned him a leer.

"You may be right about that." Jim sauntered close and laid a string of kisses along Sherlock's jawline. Upon reaching his mouth, Jim also proceeded to thread his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Much better," he announced when he was finished and Sherlock's curls could flow freely once again. "Must always look your best, married to your work."

"If I had any," _worth having_ went unsaid. "You've made your position on that quite clear." A decision made for the both of them.

Jim appeared stricken and it seemed, although it was difficult to confirm through the layers of fabric, that his knees were about to buckle. Sherlock immediately reached for him.

"No. No! Not yet!" It felt so pointless. Lacuna had found them and they wouldn't stop until his mind finished erasing Jim. It didn't matter in what era Sherlock tried to hide him, even his brain's hard drive had finite vacancy for hiding.

He grabbed Jim's hand, before the ballroom floor could fall out from under them, and commenced running. The staircase proved a real challenge when each step vanished as they climbed. They wouldn't last long but if they could widen the distance just enough, then even a couple of extra minutes together were better than nothing.

"Will you keep up?"

"You're making me run in heels!"

At last they came to a long, deserted corridor. This would do for the time being. It was dimly lit, enough to see each other but private enough that any passersby would miss them if they weren't paying attention. And it promised any number of rooms where they could take cover, if they needed to.

"I never sought to forget you," Jim said quietly, after catching his breath. "I gave you the starring role. But you, you always do this - in life and inside your mind - you deflect to someone else." He shook his head in resignation. "Is this big brother's doing or will you summon your lapdog again, who obeys your every order?"

Sherlock hung his head. "I chose to. What was it you'd said?"

The answer was wooden. "This is where I get off."

Sherlock strained to recall now if that was the exact wording. Still, he nodded. That was the sentiment, that finality. "You had become something of a... permanent fixture inside my head, but a distraction that could no longer amount to anything. I thought it would be... easier, then, if I didn't have you dwelling there. A fresh start."

He watched Jim in earnest. Anger, anguish, might have been appropriate. But neither greeted him. Only a sardonic smile.

"Well, that is true," Jim quipped.

"Pfft," Sherlock scoffed. "Easy's boring."

"Also true."

It was enough for a momentary laugh but all too quickly, it passed.

Because Jim had been more than a mere reprieve from the boredom, who'd derailed and entertained. He'd also shown where the line was drawn, and where they'd stood on it. To surrender him now was like giving up a part of his own self. Jim had often roamed wild and free, and at times would Sherlock struggle to contain him again, but it's also what he'd come to count on; stability in its instability. Even in the smallest crevices, his mind could find a place to shelter Jim. Now, each and every one of them were emptying. "I wish I kept you."

"I know."

Sherlock ran his hands down the sides of Jim's face and gently brought their foreheads together. "I didn't want to be the one to end it. I could have played forever."

"Therein lies the difference." Jim placed his hands over Sherlock's. "But I was lucky, I got to finish it with you. Always together," he whispered.

"No one ever tried to kill me as beautifully as you did."

They exchanged humble grins before Jim's expression sobered. "This is it, Sherlock. It's going to be gone soon."

The length of the corridor grew shorter. Sherlock couldn't even see the end of it anymore, it had faded into nothingness. "I know."

"What do we do?"

Sherlock turned the handle on the nearest door; it opened without a hitch. "Enjoy it."

"Wait!" Jim put out a hand, stopping him. "You're supposed to carry me over the threshold. It's tradition."

"When did you ever care about tradition?" he huffed.

A smirk crossed Jim's face. "They aren't all without their charms," he winked.

With a playful shake of his head, Sherlock complied. Jim enthusiastically wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and snuggled close, though neither one could call it an inconvenience if they both liked it. His bride in his arms, Sherlock found that he never wanted to set Jim down as he walked them through the open door.

 

What awaited on the other side was a return to St. Bart's lab.

The light brightened the middle of the room while the edges already faded into darkness, along with John's and Molly's presence. Pointless interruptions had set him on edge that Sherlock would've welcomed everyone fading away while he'd tried to work. He had tried ignoring, to no avail, so he offered Jim an insincere "Hey."

"Hey." Undeterred, Jim continued staring adoringly. It wasn't that Sherlock found him unattractive, to his chagrin, his eye was drawn to the green underwear and the belly above, protruding just slightly in the tight t-shirt, was adorable. But the smell of desperation rivaled that of the hair product.

And on came that slip of the hand. "Sorry! Sorry," Jim blurted as he sunk down to rescue the petri dish that he'd knocked to the floor. Breathing heavily, the nerves even seemed genuine. 

Until a number slid deftly under the dish. Sherlock watched, immobilized.

"Well, I'd better be off," rang behind him, and he sensed Jim walking passed.

Sherlock's gaze never wavered. Blinking rapidly, as taken aback as the last time, "I couldn't believe how you gave me your number." Finally, he turned around, only to be met with a barely contained grin. "Even if the whole thing with Molly was a pretense - and a poor one," shooting Jim an unimpressed look, "you were still supposed to keep up a front." He shook his head, having never been able to make sense of it. "And, to what end? You could have observed me any time you liked without putting yourself in the line of fire."

In keeping with the IT worker's character, Jim focused his attention on the floor. Although he dropped any phony accent. "Did it really never occur to you that maybe I was simply interested? It's not easy to put yourself out there, you know."

"I wouldn't have called. You must have known I wouldn't."

"I know," accompanied a shrug. "It was a long shot."

"Anyway, wouldn't it have disappointed you if I fell for someone ordinary?"

"You would've found out soon enough that there was more to 'Jim from IT' than meets the eye." Jim winked. "But I had to test the waters first. You surround yourself with so many 'ordinaries' everyday." The answer came with a touch of bitterness.

"It worked too well... like everything that you do." Sherlock smiled, rueful. "I forgot all about it after you left, I forgot to throw it out," a sudden realization dawned on him, "I even forgot to give it to the Lacuna people. Before the procedure, I was supposed to hand over everything that reminded me of you."

Jim's expression softened and a hopeful edge crept into his voice. "Maybe it _isn't_ that you forgot?"

The words were spoken with such purpose. It was a nice idea that Sherlock wished were true. He liked to think that he'd improved, that he wasn't as careless these days with the feelings of others. But in this instance, he couldn't bring himself to believe that it was so. He'd always sit back and wait to react to Jim, as though it were a formulated plan, when it suited him. Jim was the one to take the initiative, and Sherlock had let him. It might not have made a difference to reach out, but Sherlock had never tried to make one. His consideration had never come in time to benefit Jim.

He had to do something. As if on autopilot, he walked over and took Jim by the hand. He wasn't entirely sure of himself but this felt right. A firm squeeze greeted his own as the room began crashing down around them.

"It's almost time," Jim whispered, unlacing their fingers. "I have to go."

Sherlock turned away, unable to bear it. "There won't be any memory this time. You'll be deleted. I won't remember your face, I won't even remember your name." A heavy sigh shook his shoulders.

"It's how it happened." And the weight of that truth hung in the air. "Come back and make up a goodbye, at least. Let's pretend we had one."

Each step forward felt closer to meeting his doom. Jim's eyes were downcast, shrouded in endless mystery and shadow. Sherlock realized there was so much about Jim that he'd never known. He wished for nothing more than to look into those eyes and uncover every one of their secrets. But it was too late.

"Bye, Sherlock."

"I love you."

Just like that. Unprompted. The words said simply because he wanted to. If nothing else, at least he'd been able to admit it to himself. Just this once.

While Jim leaned in close, Sherlock's eyes drifted shut. A breathy voice echoed as if in the distance yet right against his ear.

"Call... me..."

Everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock laid in his bed, motionless, and cast a blank stare upon the ceiling. His limbs felt heavy and sluggish like they'd endured pulling him out of a daze. He couldn't recall any dreams, not that he put much stock in those, except as a reference point for what was real and what wasn't, but he must have fallen asleep. An appalling waste of time, on average, a third of a person's life, Sherlock would regularly forgo sleep if he had something better to do. Presently, he didn't know what but surely there was something that required his attention.

He rolled up his sleeves and briefly scanned the crooks of his elbows. Scars from the repeated pricks of a needle were visible. They would never fade completely, always there to serve as a reminder, either to stop himself or to relish where he'd had the most effective results. They proved useful when Sherlock needed to sharpen his wits and dull the boredom, when flurries of thoughts rushed to occupy his mind and he couldn't focus. But it didn't appear that that's what happened here. He had no fresh marks on his skin; he felt neither pain nor disorient, just lethargy. In moments of particular self-loathing, he had envied this common, everyday feeling that most could achieve through their natural states of being. He still pitied their lack of brain power but, at times, Sherlock wondered if a lack of anything to ponder wasn't necessarily a curse.

He shifted to his side, his gaze now drawn towards a cobweb in the corner of his room. Its intricate pattern was mesmerizing with its thousand threads, each and every single one of them joined to the spider's liking. Yet it had probably meant nothing to the spider, just a temporary means to trap bugs before abandoning it. The thought brought on an involuntary wave of melancholy. Had the spider died? Or moved onto a new web? It might still come back...

Sherlock pulled a face, he needed to get out of bed before he was consumed with the whereabouts of a spider. He wandered into the main living area and rubbed at his eyes. Everything was as it was, same with the kitchen. Nothing new had appeared on the website nor had he stabbed anything above the fireplace. It seemed futile to have gotten up expecting any change but perhaps through some rummaging, something might jump out at him.

 

In another part of London, John was sorting through his mail. Bills and junk, that's all it ever was. He wasn't much for correspondence, not that there were many people to correspond with; his sister, on occasion. Usually it was a call or text if Sherlock had a case, one where he too was partaking, which he hardly was anymore. And he all but abandoned his blog. He had a daughter now and he had to raise her on his own.

John swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. It was all he had left to live with and he was the worse for it. Somehow, he always paid the most, whether from Mary taking a bullet or Sherlock jumping from a building, it was John who had to pick up the pieces and carry them forever. Their weight only built until he collapsed under it, never to escape. He couldn't erase the past.

There, at the bottom of the pile, sat a plain, innocuous looking envelope. The name unfamiliar, LACUNA INC. It was probably nothing, another company trying to find new customers. Although nothing was there to suggest an advertisement. With a shrug of his shoulders, John decided just to open it.

> Dear Dr. Watson
> 
> **Sherlock Holmes** has had **James Moriarty** erased from his memory. Please never mention their relationship to him again.
> 
> Thank you.

He blinked in rapid succession. The message couldn't have said what he thought it said, it was obviously some kind of joke. While Sherlock was known to "delete" facts, mask certain traumas, and show a general disregard for either himself or the people around him through his foray into drugs, those were measures that Sherlock took himself. Even if a procedure like memory erasure were possible, John couldn't imagine Sherlock agreeing to something that required an outside hand, least of all where it concerned his brain.

John shook his head angrily. Sherlock must have thought he was being funny, or leading by way of example that the past was easy to forget and they should go back to normal already. It wouldn't be the first time that that had been asked of John. Although why couldn't Sherlock have just acted so as not to engage with Moriarty to begin with? John laughed humorlessly, sometimes he wouldn't have minded to going back to a time before Sherlock.

Of its own accord, his hand curled into a fist and he slammed it on the table. Unfortunately, the sound was loud enough to startle Rosie.

"Shit," John muttered and off he went to soothe his crying daughter. Pacing, he held her in the hope of calming her down when a note slid under his front door. Its contents were plain as day without needing to reach for it and immediately he knew who it was from.

_Your car is waiting._

 

Mycroft fixed him with a penetrating stare. "By any chance, have you ever heard the name Lacuna?"

John answered with a fake grin. "What, no 'Hello'? Not even a 'How are you and Rosie?'"

"I can see that she's... fully operational." Mycroft awkwardly gestured to the child seated in John's lap and matched sneer for sneer. Neither were ones for pleasantries and to feign any was a waste of time for the both of them. "Now, for the reason I invited you here. Lacuna."

_Invited,_ John scoffed. That was rich. It had been years since they'd met like this, discreetly away from a certain set of prying eyes. Not that Sherlock had ever been unaware of his brother... checking in. At times, John had thought that Mycroft was actually worse with the surveillance than Moriarty. Mycroft's office had even taken on the features of an interrogation room with its dim lighting and somber walls. Together, they say at either side of a desk that made the room look too small.

"Today's the first I've heard of it," he admitted.

"It is a company that offers a very particular service," Mycroft continued. "If you've had an experience that you would like to forget, Lacuna can erase it from your memory, giving you a fresh start."

"This is a real thing?" John was baffled. "Something bad happens - gone! Just like that?"

The wheels started to turn. He had been all out of sorts since he'd lost Mary... and since he'd texted 'E', and since Mary had turned out to be an ex-assassin, and since Sherlock had come back, and since Sherlock had jumped. He lived in virtual isolation these days, such that Sherlock had become uncharacteristically cautious when approaching him. He wondered if Sherlock was bracing himself for another attack but they seemed to have reached an unspoken agreement never to broach that subject again. Why not ensure that they wouldn't have the knowledge to even bring it up accidentally? It might be for the best, they could each make a clean break.

Rosie shifted in his arms and guilt settled in the pit of his stomach. If he acted to deliberately forget both his best friend and his wife, he'd put himself in a position where he couldn't explain his daughter's presence. He may have hated the situation but he didn't regret any of it - Rosie, Mary, or Sherlock.

Mycroft wore a patronizing smile as if corroborating what had just run through his mind. "Everything that's happened will always have happened but you would walk around as if it never had. But there are limits to how often you can undergo the procedure in a certain time frame, so most who use it generally do under the more dramatic circumstances. In particular, when they won't accept the end of a relationship or the death of a loved one."

Something protested inside of John as there was only one person for whom Mycroft would summon him. "They weren't lovers! Moriarty tried to destroy him."

Mycroft snorted derisively, to which he glared at in kind. "Why now? Moriarty died years ago, wouldn't Sherlock have done something sooner if it upset him so much? At least once he'd restored his reputation?" John added as an afterthought.

"Tell me, how did my brother take it when he thought that Moriarty had returned?"

"He..." John hesitated. To try and understand Sherlock's feelings was to try and divide by zero. Sometimes human, sometimes machine, one was always at the mercy of what Sherlock elected to show and never allowed to move closer to the truth. "He was obsessed. First with how Moriarty might have done it, then with what Moriarty had planned."

"But..." Mycroft prompted. "Was he unhappy?"

His shoulders slumped in resignation. Sherlock had had a near breakdown but he always chased the opportunity to. Risking his life to prove his cleverness, standing at the brink to ward off boredom, it's what he did. "No."

"And how about when Moriarty handed over the reins, if you will?"

"He was withdrawn," John sighed. He might even say that Sherlock became dismissive. "He wanted Moriarty to come back, didn't he?"

Mycroft nodded, "More than he could handle, I'm afraid, so he made a choice. Nothing else was to be done for him as long as Moriarty remains idle."

John paused as that last statement sunk in. "Idle?" his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Sherlock confirmed his death."

"To the best of his ability," came the answer. For a second, it appeared as though shame had crossed Mycroft's face, but in a flash it was gone that John couldn't say whether or not it was ever there. "Moriarty's body was never properly examined... or available."

"Well, anyone could've taken it." John suddenly felt cold.

"None of our lot and we're always watching Moriarty's known affiliates."

"And the unknown ones?" His question sent into the void, he laughed ruefully. "What then, if he's alive and one day decides to stop playing hide-and-seek?"

"Sherlock might enjoy the puzzle," Mycroft quipped but the sarcasm was lost in the solemnity of his eyes. "We must always be on guard, John." He reached down and placed a medium sized box on his desk, inquiring John to ask after it.

He huffed, compelled to take the bait. "What's this?"

"Lacuna requires all patients to gather the items that trigger any memory of the person or event about to be erased. In here," Mycroft glanced at the sealed box in front of them, "are the things that Sherlock's connected to Moriarty."

"And how did you come to possess them?"

Mycroft looked at him with contempt. "Resources."

"Fine," John relented, not unused to a similar petulance from Sherlock. "So, what do we do with them?"

"They might come in handy," Mycroft shrugged as he began listing their options. "If Sherlock ever wants or needs answers, he'll have the means to find them. Of course, he could wind up traumatized if his mind rejects the truth; you've already seen how he's susceptible to rewriting his memories. Or perhaps nothing will happen." He pressed on when John remained silent, "I can keep them in a safe place or, if you prefer, you can."

It was a lot to process and he was still unsure of the best course of action. All he knew was that he ought to pay Sherlock a visit. Slowly, John rose from his chair and walked over to Mycroft. "I'll need to think on it. If you wouldn't mind watching Rosie for a few hours? Thanks."

Without waiting for a response, he carefully lowered Rosie into Mycroft's arms. He tried to refrain from smiling at the look of horror that greeted him. All the same, Mycroft didn't object as he would be the first one to declare Sherlock a top priority.

In exchange, John walked out with the box in hand.


End file.
